“I get a little bit closer to feeling fine.”
Song: Every Day Is A Winding Road – Sheryl Crow.
It’s been almost a month since I wrote, and that’s sort of the reason why I’m writing now: I’m writing to say, basically, I don’t do things regularly.
It’s a curse of mine – one that I’ve always had, but that has grown and mutated to particularly monstrous levels over the past few months. Everything I should do regularly – from blogging, to slapping moisturiser on my face, to keeping in touch with the people in this world I can actually stand – I do well for a bit, and then something within me flicks a be-your-own-worst-enemy switch and it’s like I purposefully begin to avoid doing it, even though nothing in my life has changed to make doing it more difficult. I’m taking being a commitment-phobe to a whole new level.
So what is it? Laziness? Maybe, except I work about fifty hours a week as well as running my own house, writing novels, socialising (the one thing I definitely can do regularly…), and juggling about a dozen different, constantly-changing, mostly ridiculous hobbies (KNITTING, ANYONE?! Thought not.)
Maybe, therefore, it is in fact the opposite: I’m doing far too many things and subsequently literally do not have the hours in the day to do those things, therefore most of those things I’m supposedly doing don’t get done. If you get my drift.
So suddenly, my ‘nightly’ facial cleansing/toning/moisturising routine becomes more like a nightly routine of thinking ‘I must remember to do that’ and embarking on a search for cotton-pads, before giving up and being distracted by something shiny. And my supposed weekly blog becomes one of those ‘I’ll do it tomorrow’ things thirty days in a row. Maybe if I had less things to do, I’d have more energy to get the important stuff done. Or at least more time to dedicate to finding reasons for not doing it…
I guess this perpetual inability to do anything regularly also comes from the fact that I don’t have a daily routine. I don’t have any kind of organisational structure to my life in general. In fact, I often don’t even have a plan for how or where I’m going to get food during the day. That sort of thing just doesn’t come naturally to me like it does to the Hermione Grangers and Hyacinth Buckets of this world (or, you know, people that actually exist), and I’m not even sure that’s entirely terrible: I like spontaneity and haphazardness, it reminds me that I’m the one in the driving-seat of my life and keeps the scenery from being too monotonous (yes, alright, end of driving metaphor.). Basically, what I’m trying to say is sometimes I should probably take a sandwich to work for lunch or something.
Like I said at the beginning of this post, things have got a lot worse recently. Life is spiralling out of all semblance of normality, to the point that I think it’s been two months since I actually went to a supermarket to do a food-shop. My lifestyle, friendships and ambitions are becoming as messy and unhealthy as the contents of my fridge. So this blog post is a way to say: this will stop. I mean, I’m not going to turn into my mother or anything, but I am going to try to creep back to where I was a few months ago. I’m going to at least try and keep on top of things.
I will blog once a week, because that’s realistic.
I will go out and drink a bit less (I apologise in advance for failing at this), and
I will endeavour to do at least one thing each day that makes me think ‘So this is what being a grownup feels like.’ Like buying food, paying bills on time, and being a decent enough person to keep in regular contact with my friends.
Oh, and I’m going to buy more cotton pads.